


And Yet

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Blood, Dreams, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 16:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8291993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Julian dreams, and he dreams and he dreams: he dreams of blood, and light, and Garak.





	

When the fabric falls in a messy pile, it shimmers in the dim light of Garak’s quarters: it’s smooth and shining blue, and Julian knows from experience that it’s slightly hot to the touch, and thus a favourite of Cardassian fashionistas. The sound it makes is swift and quiet, a muted whoosh of silk on silk.

“Doctor Bashir,” Garak says, his eye ridges shifting as they rise. The polished surface of the scales doesn’t shine in the light like those of some snake would: Cardassian scales don’t reflect light or colour in the way one might expect, and for good reason. Cardassian evolution has valued stealth over everything but language. “Might I help you?”

Julian lingers in the open doorway, and he finds himself hyperaware of everything in Garak’s rooms: the way the lights are dimmed to Cardassian preference, the greens and greys and blues of Garak’s interior decorating, the heat that hits Julian in the face now that he’s stepped over the threshold from the Promenade.

His own blood feels cold where it dribbles down his chin.

Garak steps over the fabric he had dropped, and Julian hears the doors hiss closed behind him as the Cardassian steps forwards, his thumb gently brushing Julian’s chin as he cups Julian’s chin, holding him carefully and examining the blood that seems to pour out of him – Julian doesn’t remember cutting himself, or biting down, or anything at all.

And yet there’s coppery tang in his mouth, blood cold on his warm lips, and now dripping over Garak’s thumb, his fingers, his palm. Julian stares dumbly at Garak’s right hand, at how the red blood looks so bright and so shiny and so hot on Garak’s blue-grey skin.

“Oh, my dear doctor,” Garak says in nothing more than a whisper, his eyes dark with something Julian is scared of and entranced by; he feels Garak’s breath over his bloody chin and lips, like a spice-scented breeze, and he shivers. “It seems your tongue is growing too sharp, too soon.”

 ---

Julian is distracted. It’s not an especially busy day in the infirmary, primarily involving simple vaccinations and routine examinations, but even with the simplicity of the work, he finds his mind wandering to the dream he’d had the night before.

Julian always remembers his dreams. It is never the case that he wakes and finds the content of his night-time wandering slipping through his fingers, like so many people describe to him; he remembers each and every wonder and nightmare in crisp-clean detail, complete with the necessary oddity that accompanies the dream state.

Julian always remembers his dreams, but he doesn’t usually dwell on them. He simply files them away, to be accessed when he next dreams of the same thing, or when he simply has a spare moment to reflect on the strangeness of his own mental processes, but this? This is different.

He’s never dreamed of Garak before, and never dreamed of being injured, or bloody, or- Julian twists his mouth as he steps into the corridor of the Promenade, remembering the dream-metallic slough on his tongue and on his lips, and trying to forget. He moves as if on autopilot, and he finds himself stepping inside Garak’s shop before he can even consider whether it’s a good idea or not.

He sort of expects to see blue Bolian silk in Garak’s hands, but it isn’t: it’s a thick, burlap sacking, and Garak looks down at it with utter distaste as he stitches thick, heavy thread into the ruching of it.

“It’s a very ugly fashion, Doctor,” Garak says mildly, answering the question Bashir is too distracted and too tired and too uncertain to ask. “But one might forgive the Sect of Sparc their stylistic misfortunes.” Julian nods his head vaguely, stepping inside and moving to lean against Garak’s desk. The Cardassian works skilfully but slowly and concentratedly, his fingers clasping the needle with a fascinating dexterity. “What brings you here, my dear?”

“I had a dream,” Julian says, his eyes focusing on Garak’s hands and the ugly, brown fabric between them. He doesn’t look at the Cardassian’s smug features: he doesn’t think he can. “I was bleeding and I came to you.”

“Bleeding? That sounds _serious_ , Doctor Bashir.” Julian can hear the momentary hesitation in Garak’s voice, the slightest tremulous note, but he has no idea what it means, or what to do about it. He’s barely been on Deep Space Nine two months, and he still doesn’t understand what Garak means when he says “Hello!”, let alone when he says anything else.

“You said my tongue was too sharp.”

“It hardly looks all that sharp to me, but I can hardly say I’ve partaken of it.” Julian freezes like he did when Garak first grasped his shoulders in Quark’s, his eyes widening slightly as he stares down at Garak’s fingers. “Too sharp, hmm?”

“That it got too sharp, too soon.” He feels the air shift for Garak’s inhalation as much as he hears the sound.

“Well, you _are_ sharpening your tongue, my dear. Soon you’ll have a Cardassian reflex.” Garak’s hands no longer move the needle, and he sets his cloth aside. Julian focuses still on his hands as they reach out, and he closes his eyes as Garak’s fingers brush his chin. They’re not like they’d felt in the dream: Garak’s fingers are slightly cool, but dry, and pleasant to the touch.

“What if I don’t want a Cardassian reflex?”

“Why, my dear,” Garak murmurs, and his breath is warm on Julian’s lips, and Julian wants to ask what that spice on his tongue is called but can’t quite force his mouth to make the question, “if you didn’t want to become more Cardassian, you oughtn’t have come here.”

“Kiss-”

Before Julian can finish the request, Garak’s lips are on his own: dry and smooth and slightly cool, and he feels himself sigh. Garak kisses him deeply, his lips parting slightly in invitation-

And then Julian feels it, the cold, wet, coppery tang, and he cries out, trying to lean away, but Garak grips him by the jaw, kissing him harder, pouring blood into Julian’s mouth. Blood, blood, _blood_ -

 ---

Julian wakes in a cold sweat, and finds he’s bitten his own lip in the night. There’s blood on his pillow, and blood on his chin.

“Garak?” he asks his empty room. There is no response, and Julian lies down in the dark, his forefinger brushing the damaged skin of his lower lip. Of course, there would be no response – there’s no reason _Garak_ would be in Julian’s quarters.

 _And yet_ , thinks a little part of Julian, a little part of Julian that enjoys the taste of blood on his tongue. _And yet._


End file.
